Enough Funerals For A Lifetime

6 June 1988 - 28 June 1988
Ammon, my little brother. I was so proud to have a little brother and finally be a big brother. I remember bringing my friends into mum’s room to show you off, do you remember?
We lost you to Pneumonia in 3 weeks and I wasn’t a big brother anymore.

You had a tiny little white coffin my brother.
Dad was supposed to give a speech at your funeral, but choked.

Silence.

2 June 1946 - 21 January 1993
The white flag goes up by our gate and relatives start turning up. Had to give up my room to some aunt I didn’t even know. My best friend comes by and we talk by my driveway. He is still in his St. John’s High school uniform.
He says to me, “…you’re so unlucky man”
He is not the best with words but I know he meant well. I’ve never forgotten those words though.

I’m standing by your coffin dad. I look at you but you don’t look at me. I can’t move. I guess this is the last time I’ll be seeing you. I know it hurts you leaving me like this. It hurts me too. I thought you would live forever. See your grandkids. See me become the President.

Mrs. Chibanda leads me away although I really didn’t want to leave you. I wanted to stand there forever.

To the short man who made a scene because he was drunk at Dad’s funeral. Fuck you! You were drunk out of your nut and disrespected everyone. I was embarrassed that we shared the same last name. I was angry and still am. You got sick and died two days later.
Enough is enough.

From my book,
'The Tall Black Guy In The Specs'